


Exposed

by Billy the Brat (WithKeyLymes)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Balance of Power, Bloodplay, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fear, Gags, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Loss of Control, M/M, Master/Slave, Mindbreak, Non-Consensual Bondage, Physical Abuse, Ramsay is his own warning, Sexual Abuse, Threats, Torture, Voyeurism, belt gag, flaying, mild father/son, powershift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7069900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithKeyLymes/pseuds/Billy%20the%20Brat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay felt infinitely smaller then, kneeling on the floor of his room with his fine clothes disheveled and blood smeared across his lips, a slave to his own carnal desires.</p><p>“This is the boy from the news.  A fellow student at your school; the son of Balon Greyjoy.  What have you done to him?”</p><p>-----</p><p>Roose catches Ramsay red-handed as he tortures a captive Theon Greyjoy.  Rather than punish Ramsay outright, Roose chooses to break in his new toy properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposed

**Author's Note:**

> A roleplay between me and Big Brother (my fiancee, with whom I've been roleplaying for eleven years, give-or-take).
> 
> Takes place in our default ASoIaF AU, wherein all of Westeros is condensed into a violent little metropolis full of crime, backstabbery, and twisted political discourse. We still haven't hashed out enough details to tackle the storyline of that head-on, but we've built some enjoyable little alternate situations for characters such as Ramsay and Theon...

_ ‘I wonder what the weather’s like right now,’ _  Theon thought dimly. It’d been ages since he’d seen the sky, and even then, it was never for very long. He’d forgotten the sound of the rain and the howling wind, and it was too painful to truly try to remember. He just wanted a glimpse, was all. A moment in the open air. He recalled at that moment how much he’d loved the smell of approaching rain, like it was a fact about some character he’d read about in a book.

“Tch!” Ramsay’s knife bit deeper and Theon, against his will, flinched, creaking in his chains. His eyes flicked towards his captor underneath heavy lids, sharp with fear. The only way to get Ramsay to be careful while he played with his knives was to hold perfectly still; if his thrashing opened up an artery, he’d be putting himself in the ER twice - once for the cut, and once for Ramsay’s punishment for wasting time. 

Theon’s breath was tight in his chest and he felt sweat beading his forehead, twisting his ratty hair deeper into knots. He gasped weakly. “Please… I feel dizzy…” Each rivulet of blood twisting down his chest felt unnaturally hot, and Theon feared he’d be sick.

 

Even with freedom in his own grasp, the sky in Theon’s eyes was all that Ramsay needed.  His heart pounded in his ears, blood boiling through his veins, and the tip of his tongue flicked to the lingering flavour of iron on his lips, eyes as pale and bloodless as his heart wandering across the bloody canvas that he’d made of his captive.  Against his lifeblood, the boy’s skin seemed so pale in the wan light, and Ramsay’s thoughts wandered to the last time he’d allowed the sun to kiss the sandy-haired males skin.

A smile, wicked as sin, flitted across his lips, tongue touching his pointed teeth as he wrapped a lock of Theon’s hair around one pale finger, twisting the silver strands with unusual care.  That was until his grip shifted, pulling the young man closer to a grab an entire fistful of his rapidly greying hair and drag him closer still.  Sweat, sex, blood, fear -- Ramsay took a deep lungful of the scent that he’d painted his sweet prisoner with, skin prickling in anticipation as his fingertips travelled through his lover’s hair and down the back of his neck --

_ Clllick. _

The sound of the door opening was so casual, it seemed hard to believe that it could change so much.  The shadow in the door was slight, meek with any other face, but the feel of his father’s eyes made Ramsay’s skin crawl, heart leaping to his throat.  The young man felt infinitely smaller then, kneeling on the floor of his room with his fine clothes disheveled and blood smeared across his lips, a slave to his own carnal desires.  He couldn’t find the will to move.  He was stilled by shame and terror as he prepared for the punishment he was bound to receive.

 

At first Theon couldn’t believe that Ramsay stopped. He froze, awaiting the inevitable agony, only to hear a creaking door, soft footsteps, and Ramsay, panting, more on edge than Theon had ever seen. Fearfully his eyes opened, and his breath left him. He’d never seen the plain stranger standing in Ramsay’s doorway, but judging by his icy eyes and relaxed demeanor, he could only be one man. 

“M- Mr. Bolton.” Theon choked on the words, and his voice was pitiful underneath Ramsay’s weight, but he spoke all the same. He knew that his sister had the police looking for him - the bulletins were all over the news, and he only watched them in those moments where Ramsay was otherwise occupied. This man would recognize him. Emotion churned his stomach, forcing tears to his eyes. “I- I- I need-” Yet he couldn’t get the words out, even now. Ramsay was here,  _ right here _ , and though Roose Bolton had arrived, Theon was still chained, bleeding and at knifepoint. Ramsay had plenty of time to damage him beyond repair. He could only wait, deliriously hopeful.

 

Silent amongst themselves, each of the three men stared quietly at one-another, daring each other to make the next move.  Naturally, it was Roose who took the initiative, shoes clacking against the wooden floor as he crossed the room, outstretching one hand to take the sandy-haired boy’s chin and force it upward, icy eyes studying his features.

“This is the boy from the news.”  It was a statement, not a question, and the guilt bubbled up in Ramsay’s eyes.  Had he gauged the man’s cruelty wrong all these years?  He’d always considered his father to be vicious and guiltless, handing out punishments without batting an eyelash, yet he had never been the one to fall in on one of Ramsay’s less-than-legal indiscretions, nothing of this magnitude, nothing that his words would make or break.  “A fellow student at your school; the son of Balon Greyjoy.  What have you done to him?”

Ramsay’s mouth was dry, heart stuck throbbing in the apple of his throat.  He couldn’t breathe, let alone speak, and the question his father asked seemed to float at the edge of his focus.  His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he finally pulled the words from within him, pale eyes quivering, unfocused, at the floor.  “I took him.  I broke him, I… I made him mine.”

The expression might have been called a smile on anyone else, the ghost of amusement passing silently across Roose Bolton’s face as he looked the stolen Greyjoy over, the filthy mess that he had become, the wounds that covered his body, dripping silently to the floor.  With a final look at the curl of grey hair that hovered over his eyes, the man’s gaze fell to Theon’s, sour and humorless.  “Is that true, Greyjoy?  Has my bastard made you his?”

 

Theon was paralyzed, a lame rat cornered by two alleycats. He looked between one and the other over and over, trying to predict what would happen, to brace himself. Ramsay’s capacity for violence was a truth close to Theon’s heart, but the father was a mystery. Did he dare speak the truth of the torture he’d surrendered himself to, believing Roose Bolton would deliver him? Would he survive Ramsay’s wrath? Did he even want to try? 

It was then that a cold clarity cut its way through the pain: even if Theon did escape Ramsay here, he wouldn’t, not really. He was dead to the Starks, dead to his father, dead to every doorstep he might have called home - except here. Underneath ashen hair, he looked up at Roose with eyes wide and solemn. “He has, sir. He-” There was that choking feeling again. “He is my master.” Theon dared not say anything else, not in front of Ramsay.  _ ‘Let his father take the brunt of the punishment for stopping his games. He can never say I asked him to.’ _ ’

 

Ramsay’s eyes glinted in the light that poured in from the hallway, the slightest of satisfied smirks pulling up the corner of his mouth.  The sweet submission begged for a physical show of affection -a kiss on the forehead, having his hair combed- but with his father between the two of them, the young man dared not do anything more than watch quietly.

“So he is.”  Pale eyes moved across the bloody floor, falling on the bastard son and his bloody knives.  He dropped the prisoner’s face and crossed the room in three clean steps, standing before the petite brunette with a severe frown on his face.  A pale hand grasped  _ his _ chin, lifting it and studying the sadistic little child even as his matching eyes flicked in any direction but his sharp face, lips quivering, stomach snarling unhappily.  The feeling of his father’s gaze made his skin crawl, heart pounding in his chest.  “If this is traced back to my family… I won’t hesitate this time to disown you, Ramsay.”

Repressing the quivering that flowed to his extremities, he gave Roose a slow nod of the head.  “Understood,” was all that he could force past his throat, and before he could blink, the moment was gone, and he was watching his father’s retreating back as he left the room, that familiar manic smile crawling it’s way back to his lips.  When he reached the door, the older Bolton turned to make one last statement over his shoulder.  “Be sure to clean up this mess.”

 

Theon was awestruck at the way Mr. Bolton handled his son’s face - after being at Ramsay’s side for months, he’d  _ never _ seen the bastard to suffer such indignity. Yet from his perspective, Ramsay seemed relieved, wary of some unseen shadow that lay between father and son. It was the first time Theon saw his lover acting anything remote to subservient and he doubted any amount of torture would make him forget. 

“Wh-What?” He called after Roose without thinking. Shock was running through his veins like icewater, enough to make him momentarily forget the pressing weight of Ramsay above him. He strained against his bonds with newfound panicked energy, craning his neck, eyes wide and delirious. “Y-You’re just- No, you can’t, st-stop, please, you have to-  _ WAIT!”  _

That last shriek left an empty silence in its wake; the mushroom cloud that signaled an atom’s splitting. Suspended, horrified, Theon stared into the floorboards, knowing without a word that he had done the  _ wrong _ thing. His tiny shoulders quaked, and he wanted so completely to be a corpse. 

 

For a moment, everything froze.  When time started again, everything was sped up.  Ramsay had a fistful of Theon’s hair in hand, teeth at his neck as he snarled threateningly against his skin, and Roose Bolton turned in place, crossing the room once again and taking one knee in front of his son’s new… toy.  The smile on his face could curdle milk.  Without speaking, he pulling a pale pink kerchief from his breast pocket and took Theon’s face in one hand, prying his jaw open to shove the piece of cloth into his mouth, each corner folded in.

“You’ll stay still, won’t you?”  It was an order despite the phrasing, and the man’s belt was the next thing removed from his frail form.  With the Greyjoy’s mouth still gaping and gagged, he forced the leather between his teeth and fastened the belt around his head, tightening and securing it without concern for the boy’s comfort.  Ramsay had retreated, stood off to the side, apprehensive yet curious; he’d never seen his father put his hand to another person, and anyone who wanted to shed Theon’s blood was welcome to it, as far as he was concerned.  It was unsurprising, then, that he jumped at Roose’s outstretched hand, placing his bloodstained scalpel in it reverently.

“Don’t restrain yourself, please.  If you hold back, we can’t be sure you’re gagged properly.”  When Roose took the knife to Theon’s skin, it was with a cold cruelty that Ramsay’s hot temper would never allow.  There was no pattern to follow, but he stuck to the sensitive underside of the young man’s arms, carving long, deep wounds that stretched alongside each other.  Pale eyes flicking to Theon’s face, gauging for a reaction, he turned the scalpel in one hand and eased the tip of it beneath his skin and began sawing slowly, severing skin from muscle, pausing whenever the body beneath him jerked and twisted, savouring his muffled shrieks with an amused smirk.

 

As much as Theon wanted to be numb, he couldn’t - he was terrified. He shuddered in his chains when Roose drew close, afraid to meet his eyes and afraid to look away. A low moan of despair creaked between broken teeth, and while Mr. Bolton crouched down to his level, Theon pressed himself fitfully into Ramsay’s clenched fist with no concern for the pain. Tears dripped down the hollows of his cheeks beyond his control, and the ‘smile’ on Roose’s sallow face was an undeniable signal of his doom. Even worse was Ramsay retreating, his ice-chip eyes wide with sick fascination and no small measure of fear. 

_ ‘The son is just a shadow of the father.’ _

No amount of exposure could have prepared Theon for the pain. It overwhelmed him instantly and completely, like a tidal wave. His mind became a white static of fear and dread with every wicked adjustment of the blade. Helpless, he began to scream, choking on his gag and coughing only to scream some more. Writhing under Mr. Bolton, he drove splinters into his back trying to escape the searing, the burning, the terrible  _ sound _ of his skin being separated from his muscle. As his flooded eyes darted around the room in panic, they found Ramsay’s and locked on, pleading with him. It was an ordeal to keep focused between slices, but somehow he managed, even as his back arched and legs kicked.  _ ‘Please.’ _ Theon shrieked it, for all the good it would do. 

“Please.” 

_ ‘Don’t leave me like this.’ _

“Please, Ramsay!”

_ ‘Don’t abandon me.’ _

 

The muffled sound that struggled past Theon’s gag made Ramsay’s hair stand on end.  He’d made the boy scream and beg and cry in all sorts of ways, but he’d never before heard him  _ suffer _ so intensely, choking on his own voice, driving himself into the bed frame in the hopes of getting away from the scalpel in his father’s hand.  His fingers trembled, tensing against the palms of his hands, breath coming in shallow bursts that left him feeling light-headed.  A shiver sent goosebumps down his arms, and yet Ramsay’s attempt to avert his eyes failed.  He didn’t want to feel as hot as he did, least of all in response to the actions of his father, but the way his prize’s pretty blue eyes met his own elicited a strangled moan from the bastard’s throat, thumb hooking through a belt loop rather than satisfying his own primal urges.

Roose, for his pleasure, was calm and unshaken by the Greyjoy’s screams.  Whenever the young man thrashed, his hand froze, waiting until the body beneath him calmed before he resumed his torture.  Within the better part of an hour, Theon was hanging limp from the cuffs that chained him to his son’s bed, the other teenager sitting on the floor looking aghast and aroused and altogether unsure of what to do with himself.  Along the Bolton prisoner’s right arm were three long, gory stripes of revealed flesh, the pool of blood beneath him stretching along the hardwood floors.  With a soft grunt, Roose Bolton rose to his feet, rolled his shoulders, and pulled the bloodstained gloves from his hands, dropping them into the mess that was rapidly congealing on the floor.

“That much blood will stain the floor if you’re not careful.  You’ll have it cleaned up by tonight, Ramsay.”  The middle-aged man was unbelievably casual, turning to leave just as he had so much earlier, pulling the door shut with a sharp crack without even a final glance over his shoulder.  Once again, Ramsay was alone with his prize; a prize he’d just watched his father torture into silence.  Though his legs had fallen asleep, the young man rubbed life back into them when he got to his feet, crossing the room to place a hand gently upon Theon’s head, fingers curling into his greying hair, pulse throbbing in his throat, his chest, his groin.  The other hand ghosted its way across the three deep wounds in his arm, too terrified and mystified to touch them in earnest.  He knew they begged for cleaning and dressing, that he’d have to do as much to keep his pet safe, that there was no safe way to bring such injuries to a hospital… yet he couldn’t initiate the movement, still basking in the afterglow of the sadistic acts, like nothing he’d ever seen before.

“How…”  He stopped, swallowed, took another breath of air, and set his pale eyes on Theon’s face rather than the bleeding sores.  “How does it feel, Theon?”

 

The punishment could have lasted a thousand years for all that Theon knew. When the door closed shut behind Mr. Bolton, he was hollow, wasted; the husk of a tree left over after a fire. There was only his ears ringing and his arm burning. It was all he could to shift slightly in the blood congealing around his thighs when Ramsay drew close. 

Meeting his lover’s eyes was swallowing glass. The question coaxed out a scoff, and he would have spit in Ramsay’s face if he had the energy. Despite that, more than anything, he longed for the bastard’s soft embrace, fleeting and superficial as it was; something to remind him he could be loved. A few more tears traced down his sunken features, and when he spoke, it was with a raspy voice, barely more than a whisper. 

“Take the chains off. Please.”

 

For a moment, Ramsay hesitated, never one to give into his pet’s demands.  His lip curled, eyes combing over the ruin of the teenage boy’s body, the lifelessness in his posture, and for once he caved.  Digging the set of keys from his pocket, he wrapped one arm around Theon’s torso and unlocked both cuffs, buckling beneath the weight of his unwilling lover.

There was no doubt in Ramsay’s mind that the last thing Theon wanted was the feeling of his hands, but he couldn’t hold them back any longer, feeling the red liquid soaking into the legs of his pants, nostrils filled with the rich, tempting, hot smell of his pet’s blood.  Unbidden, his mouth found that soft pale skin, teasing it between his teeth, lapping up the red iron and pressing the bulge in his pants against any part of the man’s body he could reach.  Both hands twisted their way into the back of his pants, tugging them down around his thighs, blood dampened fingertips finding their way to his puckered entrance and pushing in, stretching, pulling, making way for the desire that demanded fulfillment.

Both of Theon’s legs rested on his shoulders as Ramsay pressed his cock against the teenager’s tight entrance, swallowing thickly and pushing himself forward, bracing them both against his bed’s footboard.  With a groan, he pushed his way through the first ring of muscle and forced his cock deep into the Greyjoy’s warm insides.  Passion turned his vision red, hips twitching, tongue finding every drop of blood that slipped its way down his slender frame.  The moment of climax came far too soon, with a moan befitting a whore as Ramsay emptied himself deep inside his dear possession, holding him close and panting beside him.

Shame preceded concern as the bastard boy pulled out of his lover, sperm dripping to mix with the bloody mess on his bedroom floor.  Nearly a head shorter than Theon, he struggled to heft him to the bed, but succeeded in the end, lowering him to the comforter and retrieving the first aid kit kept beneath it, beginning the process of cleaning and dressing his prisoner’s lacerations in silence.

 

Theon anticipated Ramsay’s embrace once he was released. Lust emanated from the dark-haired young man in waves Theon swore he could smell. He’d never known Ramsay to suffer waiting for satisfaction either, so he lay limp in his captor’s capable arms while his blood was drank and his body made use of. For once, there was no pain - Theon assumed the punishment he’d just endured had fried his nervous system. It was odd laying there underneath Ramsay, numb enough to think, and observe the boy above him in the midst of his desires, like Theon was the one in control. He couldn’t decide whether to relish in this new perspective or resent it. 

The softness of Ramsay’s bed was almost enough to push Theon into unconsciousness, but he knew better, and so sat propped against the wall with dead eyes, listening to his lover work. The silence surrounding them was unusual; typically Ramsay cooed over each and every mark left on his pet. It was then Theon began to realize that there was nothing usual about what had happened, and neither of them were prepared for the outcome.

Maybe it was the confidence of feeling half-dead already, but an urge grew in Theon to take advantage of this tension. Misty eyes flicked towards Ramsay, who was focused intently on his butchered arm, and it took a few starts to properly use his voice. “If… I would sooner end it than risking that happening again. Even if you try to stop me.” Gently, he turned towards Ramsay, speaking with a stranger’s voice, calm and soft. “I know now that nothing I do to myself could be more painful.” 


End file.
